The Extents of an Insane Love
by cookies111
Summary: The loss of a loved one is a difficult thing to cope with. But for Arthur Kirkland, copping isn't an option. He just wants Alfred back, and will stop at nothing to get what he wants.  No matter how he gets it. M for insanity & possible gore later
1. Chapter 1:

_A/N: hello all. So yes, yes be mad that I'm starting another story I won't update forever and then the next chapter will just be complete suck =-=. Anyways dark story ahead (not so much this chapter, but later on). So be warned_

_Rating: M for gore and insanity later_

_Genera: Angst, horror, tragedy_

_Characters: England, France, America(kinda)_

_Pairings: USUK, Past/one-sided FrUK. If you wanna, you can think of it as just friendship_

_Summary: The loss of a loved one is a difficult thing to cope with. But for Arthur Kirkland, copping isn't an option. He just wants Alfred back, and will stop at nothing to get what he wants. No matter how he gets it._

_Declaimer: I don't own any characters _

~*~*~weeee~*~*~

{[(Arthur's POV)]}

'_No . . . no no no no no no NO! Th-this can't . . . th-this isn't happening. I-it can't be i- . . . it just can't god damn it!'_

Salty tears ran from my green eyes and made trails down my cheeks. I couldn't believe it. It had to be a dream. I prayed to a god I wasn't even sure of anymore that I would wake up any second now and find myself in bed, a warm body wrapped around me in a caring embrace, and a worried voice telling me, "You were thrashing, so I thought a hug would help." like all the other times I had a dream like this.

I bolted my eyes shut and pressed the lids together tight. Holding my breath, I counted the seconds – waiting to open them again and come face to face with those sweet aqua marine orbs and that stupid, idiotic, ignorant, imbecilic – . . . amazing, beautiful, lovable, perfect smile of his.

Time passed by, and I began to run out of air. But I wouldn't breath. Not till I awoke. Not till I saw him. Not till he was there . . . breathing with me.

Maybe it's like wishing on a star . . . if you tell someone what you asked for, it won't come true. Maybe if I take in a breath of air, I'll be denied the chance to gain my consciousness. So I kept holding onto what little air I had left, not daring myself to get any more than that. Not daring myself to take that chance . . . not wanting to face the truth . . . it was too painful . . .

'_Please . . . please I'd give anything. Just . . . let me wake up. Let this be fake . . . don't . . . don't take him from me . . . he's all I have . . . no . . .'_

My head began to feel like it was losing weight. Both my lungs and brain roared at me to exhale the air I had and to draw in a new breath. I disregarded them. They'd see. In just a few moments this whole scene would be gone – forgotten forever.

Without much warning, my legs quit functioning and I was slammed to my knees. Still, I didn't breathe. My head started to pound along with my heart. That's all I could hear. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, over and over. It hurt . . . pretty much everything started to hurt. The things that didn't ache had gone numb. But . . . it's nothing compared to . . . oh god.

The need for oxygen grew more intense by the second, but I ignored it with all I had. Fuck, when would I wake up? This was getting ridiculous! Surely by now I would have . . .

What if I was wrong? What if this was real? What if Alfred was really . . . I can't even finish that thought.

'_. . . Well then . . . I guess I'll just stay like this . . . I don't mind . . . not at all . . . I want to leave this place . . . I want to be with him . . . I'll give anything . . . my life included . . .'_

. . . Then again, it might not kill me – just make me sleep (for real this time). But there's always that chance . . .

I want to take it. I want to take that chance. It'll at least hurt me . . . that's good.

Again, I counted the time as it passed. My thoughts began to grow sluggish though, and the numbers slurred – even in my mind. They twisted and reshaped themselves. Before long my mind was filled with thoughts of "twelvedy-eight" and "mexty", whatever the bloody hell those are supposed to be.

Just when I felt the darkness begin to spread around me, a sound made its way to my ears. It was familiar . . . I'd diffidently heard it before – it was nothing new. A steady, _thump, thump, thump._ Probably just my heartbeat.

But then a voice . . . I know that voice so well . . .

"Oh Arthur cher~ it is the fabulous me come for a visit. Open up, before I break down your door like last time~. Remember how expensive that was to replace? Well I sure do. If you don't want it to happen again, I suggest you let me in~."

'_Shit. The frog. Why's he here? Damn it, what if he comes in? He'll try to stop me! I-I can't . . . he can't stop me! Besides, why would he even want to in the first place?' _

The knocking got louder, but I didn't move from my spot (as if I could). All I did was give up trying to stay kneeling, and collapsed to the ground. The knocks and teasing of the Frenchman began to grow quieter, quieter, quieter . . . until there was almost no sound at all.

Then an earsplitting crash broke through the silence, followed by a yelp of surprise.

Only a few, meager seconds passed before I felt my body being jerked around harshly. Hands were clutched to my shoulders and shaking me back and forth.

It was a chore to continue holding my breath, but somehow I still managed to do it. I guess I was just that desperate . . . but as I said, chances were this wouldn't even kill me – after I passed out I'd just start breathing again. As much as I hate it, that's just how the body works – but it would still feel good to get right on the edge of death. I wanted to be teetering on my heels and staring right into the pits of hell. I wanted to see the flames and the demons – all the damned souls. I just wanted to be a daredevil and get so close to the afterlife that I could just reach out and . . . my god, when did I become so sick?

Frantic yelling echoed in the distance, but the cries were muffled and I couldn't make out the words in them.

'_I'm so close to the dark . . . I think I can touch it if I try . . . just like I wanted to . . . wait, can I touch the dark? If I can, what would it feel like? I think it'd feel nice. But I can't be sur-'_

My random thoughts were cut off as a spark of pain ignited in my stomach, and seemed to have an effect on my whole body. A bright, emerald green was added to the scene once more as my eyes snapped open. The hit to my abdomen must have pushed against my diaphragm, because without even thinking about it, I took in a huge gasp for air which, of course, led to more.

As I panted and wheezed for all the air I could possibly take in, I felt both heat and cool wash over my face as my blood resumed its natural flow, and the cells filled once again with oxygen. I coughed a few times before my breathing began to calm and all my senses returned to normal.

Before I could even get a single word out, a cold hand was whisked across my face with a resounding '_CRACK!' _

I stared at the air for a few seconds in shock before bellowing, "What the bloody-"

But I was cut off by another slap to my other cheek, and then a pair of lips pressed to my own. I blushed deeply and tried with all my might to push away the body.

'_No . . . NO! What the fuck do you think you're doing! Y-you can't touch me like this! Y-you could b-but not now! Only _**he **_can touch me like this, frog! You have no right to! Only him! ONLY HIM! But he- . . . h-he's . . . so I guess no one can touch me like this . . . no one. Ever again . . .'_

My struggles grew weaker as my thoughts wandered. Before long I was just sitting there, tears in my eyes once more.

"O-oh god Arthur." Francis sobbed, holding me to his chest. "Wh-what the hell was that? What were you doing? Why-wh-why weren't you breathing? Why . . . why are you crying? What happened?"

When I looked into his eyes, I saw nothing but worry. The fucker. Why'd he have to be sweet like this? He left me, so why does he act this way? I hate him so much . . .

"Arthur," he brushed some hair from my face. "Arthur, Quel est le problème? What's wrong?"

I couldn't handle it anymore. I broke down crying in his arms. My hands fisted his clothing, but he didn't mind. Francis just held me gently and stroked my back. He might have sung some French lullaby, but I wasn't sure. The only sound that I could be sure of were my heart wrenching sobs.

"Shh, shh, Arthur. Arthur, it's okay. It's okay, you're okay. Just relax. Breathe. It's okay, cher. I'm here, I'm here."

"I-I don't w-want y-you, fr-frog! I-I want h-him! N-no one else! Y-you don't compare . . . n-never think you can! Y-you can't! I-I-I- . . . I just want him back . . . o-oh . . . oh god!"

As I sobbed louder, he held me tighter. "Arthur, I don't understand. Tell me what happened. I need you calm down. I want to help you, but I can't if you don't speak clearly. Come on, take a breath." I did as I was told. "Good, that's good Arthur. Now relax and tell me what happened."

A few staggered gasps later, I finally had enough breath to rasp out, "A-A-Alfred . . . h-he . . . he's g-gone . . . f-f-forever."

"You two broke up?"

". . . N-no . . . i-it's so much worse . . . I'd actually p-prefer that. N-no he . . . h-he's . . . he's . . ." I couldn't finish my sentence. Because doing that would be admitting it. I wasn't ready for that. I'd never be ready for that. So I just kept on sobbing my heart out into Francis's shirt. What more could I do? I barely had enough strength to even do that.

Although I couldn't get the word out, the Frenchman understood what I was trying to say and instantly froze up. ". . . o-oh my . . . A-Arthur I . . . I-I'm so sorry . . . how?"

"I-it's all my fault, Francis . . . all my fault. I-I didn't mean to, I-I swear. I didn't mean t-to . . . b-but . . . but I did . . ."

He shook his head and spoke to me as a mother would her child. "Oh, no no no Arthur, I'm sure it wasn't you. You wouldn't do that, I know you wouldn't. You love him too much. It wasn't you, Arthur."

"Y-you don't kn-know that! Y-you don't know! I-it was m-me!" I was inches away from hysterics.

Francis kept rubbing my back and telling me it wasn't my fault and that things would be okay. But nothing he said would make a difference to me. I knew better. It _**was **_my fault. And it would never be okay. I killed him. I killed the man I love.

Not directly, and not at all intentionally, but it was me nonetheless.

We had a fight . . . only a few hours ago actually. I started it . . . as always. I'd complained that he never did anything and that it wasn't fair that I was always the one doing the housework. Every day he would make a mess and I'd be left to clean it up. It was something that could have stayed so small . . . but I went and turned it into a huge deal.

We started yelling, and before long Alfred had stomped out the door, saying he was going somewhere to cool down.

That somewhere just happened to be a bar.

He'd only been gone five hours before I got the call . . . no matter how long I live, I'll never forget that call.

The police found him, bloody and mangled, on the roadside. He had all his ID on him, so they were able to work fast. They're not sure exactly what happened – most likely a hit and run – but they said he had an extreme amount of alcohol in his blood.

I never felt more terrible in my life. I just wanted to drop over dead.

But I can't. Not as long as Francis is here. He won't let me.

Because no matter how many times I tell him I hate him, he'll just respond with "Well I love you." And he won't leave me alone now. Damn. That fucking bastard. If he really loved me he'd just leave me alone.

But I guess that's just too much to ask.

~TBC~

. . .

_A/N: I like it. I was a bit skeptical when I started writing this, but I think it turned out good in the end. Not the worst thing in the world, right? And I KNOW I have so many other stories I could be working on but . . . when inspiration calls, I can't help but answer. Hope you at least found it acceptable. Bye bye~_


	2. Chapter 2:

_A/N: Okay, this one's kind of a shorty. There was going to be more, but I was writing it and it just seemed to end at the right spot. There will be more FrUK here than originally thought, but I plan on keeping it one-sided._

_No one goes crazy yet. We have two or three chapters before that happens ;)._

_Hope you like. Thanks to anyone who read this. ^^_

_I don't own the characters. _

~*~*~weeee~*~*~

{[(ARTHUR'S POV)]}

"Why isn't it raining?"

"Hm? . . . I- . . . I don't know Arthur. That's just . . . it's just sunny today."

"Well it should be raining."

". . ."

In all the movies I'd ever seen where someone died, it was always raining at the funerals. _**Always. **_It was so fitting. It felt to so right. It made it seem like the world beyond this was anguished by the loss as well.

So why wasn't it raining then? Someone died. It was a funeral. So where was the rain?

Why? Why were the heavens dry-eyed? They witnessed the terrible death of an angel, shouldn't they be on their knees sobbing? If not out of sadness, then out of joy that they're getting such a sweet, loving creature back?

They should've been, but they weren't. It was a beautiful, perfect, sunny summer day. Just more proof to me that there wasn't anything up there . . . I was seriously contemplating about turning atheist.

There weren't many people here on earth weeping either. Which simply repulsed me. If they weren't going to mourn, why did they even show up for the burial?

Really the only tears I could see shed were those of Alfred's mother, his brother (whose name I couldn't remember for the life of me), and my own. Francis had cried for a bit earlier, but that was only when I was on my knees bawling my soul out and he had to comfort me for about an hour. That fucking bastard didn't give a single shit about Alfred.

I believe I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I hate him. I hate him with all that I have. Nothing he – or anyone else – ever does will change that.

My eyes were a dull, lifeless forest color as I watched the elegant casket (not quite as much so as its contents, but elegant nonetheless) be slowly lowered into the ground. It shouldn't be . . . he was too good for that. The dirt didn't deserve him, and especially not the worms.

Repulsive things – he always hated them. And now he has to be surrounded by them for the rest of eternity . . . It's not fair!

But he couldn't have been cremated. No, then he'd be nothing but ash that would blow away with the slightest hint of a breeze. Ash was weak, and he was so strong . . . besides, he didn't want to be burned. He was never too fond of heat.

Down he went; into the dark of the ground. It took all that I had to keep myself from jumping in there with him.

I swallowed a lump in my throat and rubbed at my eyes. Next to me, Alfred's mom fell to the ground and wailed that he didn't deserve it. I couldn't agree with her more.

Her other son - Marcus? Martial? – kneeled by her side and tried to calm her. It only led to more cries, however.

Francis glanced at me from his spot a few feet away, but I didn't look back at him. I didn't take my eyes off the casket. Even after it was out of vision, my sight didn't waver from where I'd last seen it. From where I'd last seen _him_.

I took in a staggered breath. Was I still crying? I couldn't feel the tears anymore. Of course, I'd pretty much gone numb quite a while ago.

Since I got that call on that fateful day, all I'd been doing was sitting in my home, staring blankly at the wall and occasionally having a bottle of rum . . . or two, or three, or sometimes four.

I hadn't gone to my job at all either. After a few weeks of calling in sick, they just decided to fire me. I didn't really care. So what if I didn't have any money?

The frog checked up on me daily. He'd make meals for me (I would never eat willingly. If he wanted me to have food, he'd have to force my mouth open and shove the food down) and would sometimes stay for a while and look at me while I looked at nothing.

Almost every day he'd try to get some kind of reaction out of me. He'd tease, and poke my face. Make insults directed at my cooking and fashion sense. He'd break my china on purpose and say he refused to clean it up. He'd put on music he knew I hated, tell stories that were supposed to make me laugh, tickle me, pull my hair, kiss my cheeks, and make his damn love confessions that meant absolutely nothing to me. But I never so much as batted an eye.

Once he even started crying, and began to plead and beg me to show some emotion, some recognition that I was still alive.

And when he cried, I got angry. He wouldn't shed a single when I told him Alfred was gone, but he'd burst into hysterics if I didn't react to his stupid actions? That fucking prick. Oh god, how I wish he'd drop over dead. I wish it'd been him instead of Alfred.

But I decided to give him what he wanted. I looked at him blankly and weakly whispered three words, "I hate you . . ."

It wasn't meant to come out sounding like that. It was supposed to have venom dripping from every syllable. I was planning on hissing it out while wearing a face of absolute disgust.

But for some reason, it was but a pathetic murmur that even I could barely hear, and my face still held that blank, unseeing appearance.

It looked to be enough for Francis though. A smile spread across his face, and he moved a few stray strands of hair from my eyes.

"I love you too, cher . . . cher? Oi, Arthur, Pouvez-vous m'entendre? Can you hear me?"

Brought back to reality by the soft jostling of my upper arm, I realized that most everyone had left the cemetery. Was I really zoned out for that long? It didn't seem like it.

Francis continued to push my shoulder lightly. "Arthur, hey, come on. It's over. Time to go home . . . are you listening?"

Slowly, I nodded. "Y-yes." My feet were on autopilot as the started to leisurely move their way out of the graveyard. Sandy blonde hair hit my face as my head hung as low as it could go. Water still trickled from my eyes. I didn't feel like wiping it away, so I let it roll off my face and drip to the grass below.

Francis stared at me as I went. "Do you want me to drive you home? It wouldn't be a bother."

"No. I took a bus here and I can take one back . . . " I had a car and could operate it magnificently, but I didn't have the willpower to drive properly that day. I decided it'd be better to take public transportation rather than kill a bunch of pedestrians and myself with reckless driving . . . maybe I should have driven after all.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive, froggy."

"Alright . . . promise you'll call me if you need anything."

"No." And with that, I left and began my slow shuffle to the bus station.

~T.B.C~

_A/N: like I said, it just ended in the right place._

_Hope it was okay. _

_Bye~_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I know, right. I'm updating semi-regularly :O. This chapter is longer than the others, but I think it moves kinda fast. I like it though. Artie goes a bit insane here, but not as much as he will later ;). I don't have much to say._

_I don't own hetalia._

~*~*~Arthur's POV~*~*~

Since the beginning of time, humans have been curious. They've always wanted to discover how and why something is, and how they can use that to their advantage to better their lives. Most things they found were in the nature around them.

Man was smart. Man found different ways to use the things they found. There was electricity, antibiotics, anesthetics, oil, the list went on and on and will only grow as more time goes by.

But there's one of these discoveries that far surpasses any others. It can bring pure bliss to a person and get rid of their troubles. It's been around for countless years, doing what it does best. Easing the pain of life.

In Ancient Rome, their gods would have it on a daily basis. In Britain's younger days, the people would have it more than they had water. Today humans everywhere still love it.

It obscures the mind and lightens the mood. It's everywhere, it amazes me, it helps me. I need it. Especially now. I need the most delicious, calming, intoxicating thing man has found yet.

Alcohol.

Leaning my head back in my chair, I tipped the glass bottle towards me and awaited the desirable contents to pour out into my mouth. The remaining substance slid quickly down the bottle neck and flooded onto my tongue.

I swallowed quickly.

A bitter flavor lingered on my taste buds, but I'd gotten used to it long before any of this. I'd always been a heavy drinker. Lately it'd been getting worse though.

Not even a week had passed by since the funeral, and I was getting drunk off my ass almost every night and day. A mountain of empty liquor bottles had begun to build up in the living room. If the frog were there, he'd probably have yelled at me and confiscated all alcoholic products within a ten mile radius, but he hadn't visited in a while. I wonder why.

Not that I care – as I said, I can't stand the wanker – it's just unlike him.

"Who cares?" I mumbled drunkenly to myself, "'e's a frog anyways. 'O needs 'im? No one needs a _frog_. 'Specially not meh." I pounded on my chest to prove my point to . . . the air. Yeah, that cocky air needed to be taught a lesson on who's top dog around here!

. . . What was I doing? I was acting like a complete nutcase. Talking to myself, getting into fights with nothing; it's embarrassing!

However, at that point in time, I was too drunk to give a damn about anything.

So I kept on drinking away, trying (and rather succeeding) to forget the events of the past month or so.

Somewhere along the line, the clock on my coffee table must have said something stupid, and the television must have agreed, because I found myself in a heated argument with the both of them.

"Dun cha give meh dat look, I know dat ya know that I'm right. Ahm always right ya numbered half-wit. Dun even try ta deny it."

About half an hour later I somehow had a TV with a clock through the screen, and was on the floor crying about how I didn't get to watch "Dr. Phil" or something like that . . .

Wow. Rum does weird things to me. I must need more.

Holding onto the couch arm for support, I hoisted myself to my feet, and began my wobbly path to the kitchen. Four times I stumbled, twice I fell.

'_Bloody hell, how much have I drank? Let's see that's one, two . . .' _I stopped my sorry attempts to get to the refrigerator to hold up all the fingers on my hand and count them off as I went.

'_Umm, I dunno . . . guess it doesn't matter.'_ And with that, I once again began to hobble to the kitchen on my valiant quest to get piss drunk . . . wait, I was already piss drunk . . . piss drunk_er_! I am so smart.

I was so close to my goal that I could see the snowy white of the refrigerator door, but something made me stop dead in my tracks. A picture . . . held on to the fridge by a hamburger magnet (I didn't buy that by the way).

I'd forgotten about that photo . . . it was taken so long ago . . . five years. All thoughts of rum, and jerky clocks, and air that needed to learn its place left my mind as I gaped intently at it.

It showed two youths with red noses and chapped lips out in the dead of winter. The shorter one with untidy, straw blonde hair, bright green eyes, and the thickest eyebrows in the world (most fabulous as well) was wearing a scowl and trying to huddle deeper into his coat, while the other, dirty blonde with glasses, was smiling a wide, closed eyed grin and snapping the picture.

For who knows how long, I just stood there slouching slightly, staring at the picture.

I quietly chuckled. "I 'member that . . ." I poked my finger at the taller man in the photograph. A ditsy smile burst on my face. "Dats Alfred. Alfred~. Allyfred Eff Juns~. Alfie, Alfie, Alfie~. I lurve chu Alfie~." I placed a kiss on the picture.

Giggling, I trailed my fingers down the photographed American's cheek. "Oh Alfie, 's too bad ya left."

I froze. All traces of a smile disappeared from my face. That's right . . . I'd forgotten. Alfred left . . . he disappeared from my life . . . forever. He was gone. Gone . . . gone . . . gone . . . forever . . . my love. The one person who I could be myself around. Gone . . . gone, gone, gone, gone.

Funny how quickly one's legs can convert to jelly.

In a blur, I was slumped against the refrigerator, fisting the picture between my fingers. My bottom lip quivered and my eyes began to sting like someone poured a barrel of salt onto them.

Alfred . . . my darling . . . I'd never hear his adoring voice again. Never hear his charming laughter. That fact alone was enough to shatter my heart into a million tiny pieces, so small that there was no hope of putting them back together.

Still grasping the photograph, I sank to the floor.

". . . D-dammit . . . f-fuck . . ." A sob popped from my lips.

My entire form started trembling. By then I was crushing the picture so tightly that the corners were piercing my skin and making crimson drip from my palms and splatter, drop by tiny drop onto the floor.

My once steady breath started coming out in deep, shaking pants. Everything went fuzzy as my mind rushed. Memories swam into my brain and made me feel sick. I held both my hands over my mouth to try to keep myself from vomiting.

It was just too much . . . too much . . . oh god.

I gagged a bit before leaning to the side and expelled bile from my stomach, as I'd barely eaten in the past week. My gasps got a quicker pace and I began sobbing.

Only one thought and one thought alone was on my mind. '_Alfred.'_

Subconsciously, I began to rock back and forth.

"I-I . . . I-I c-c-" I began to hyperventilate. ". . . I . . . c-can't . . . c-can't d- . . . do it . . . I-I . . . n-no . . . just . . . oh please j- . . . just kill me now."

. . . I could do it . . . I could. I was completely up to it. I had the willpower. My gaze wandered to the drawer where I kept my knifes. Oh yes, I had the materials. And no sign of the Frog . . . no one to try to stop me . . . this was wonderful. Nothing short of magnificent!

Suddenly, the sounds of laugher filled my ears. Strange, I could have sworn I was alone. I didn't see anyone else come in my house. So . . . who was laughing?

'_. . . No way . . . is that me? Am I laughing?_'

I touched the corners of my mouth lightly and, sure enough, found that they were pulled upward.

I was shocked beyond belief. How the hell could I be _laughing? _And at a time like this!

But . . . it sounded . . . different. It wasn't my own . . . I mean it was but . . . it's difficult to describe. It was still me but . . . at the same time it wasn't.

It wasn't good natured, it wasn't relieved, it wasn't smug, it wasn't even nervous. No, I could only think of one word to define my laughter.

Insane.

Nothing more, nothing less. Just purely, utterly, terribly insane.

I was shaking worse than ever by then. I crawled on my hands and knees to reach the edge of the counter, stretched up, and pulled at the appropriate compartment far enough to bring it out entirely.

Polished metal flashed and glinted all over as multiple blades were dumped from the drawer and strewn about the floor. Clanking echoed throughout the kitchen and made my ears ring.

The sight of all those possibilities scattered before me made my crazy giggling grow louder. Oh, all those beautiful opportunities. This was going to be so easy. I only had one decision left. Which knife should I use?

After little to no debate, I settled on a normal one – the kind you use to cut fruit and vegetables and the such. It just seemed like the most reasonable. I didn't want to use a carving or butcher knife just to slit my wrists.

I picked it up and ceased laughing as I stared at it.

The blade was so tempting . . . I couldn't help myself. I ran my finger along the sharpened edge. It dug into me and made dark red blood ooze out. A few drops were able to make it to the floor and mix with the other red splotches that had fallen from the same hand earlier.

". . . Pretty." I mumbled.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I brought the blessed object to the base of my hand. I gently rested the shrill metal over a large, blue vein. It tickled my skin and made me smile.

A slight push was all it took. Red poured from my wrist. I didn't even flinch. Just stared. Stared as scarlet waterfalls gushed from me.

" . . . It feels nice . . . I like it. A lot." On that thought, I made another incision. Then another. And another.

The good feeling didn't go away. Actually, it got even better.

I went to the other wrist.

My vision obscured and I felt sick again. A chill ran through my body. Once again, I was panting.

I rubbed at my eyes to try to wipe the haziness away, but all that did was smear a little red on my face. The Earth was spinning much faster than it should. I started swaying on my knees from side to side. The knife slipped from my grasp and joined the blood on the ground with a clack.

My entire world was whirling and turning – spiraling out of control. I leaned my head against the side of the fridge and closed my eyes. Blood continued to run from the cuts I'd made, making the dizziness intensify.

'_This is worse than a hangover.'_ I thought.

Then . . . knocking. "Arthur~ C'est moi."

'_Déjà vu.'_

I groaned_. __'He disappears for a week and _now_ he decides to drop by?'_ Damn fate hated me.

"I'm coming in." There were a few moments of silence before I heard the front door opening. Guess he got a key made at some point in time. "Sorry I haven't been here in a bit. Ma maman was visiting and wouldn't let me- . . . oh mon dieu."

I blew air out weakly from my spot on the ground. It was supposed to be a chuckle, but apparently I was unable to do that. Sounds like he'd seen Mt. Liquor Bottle in all its glory.

". . . A-Arthur?" his voice shook nervously. "W-where are you?"

I didn't answer. I wasn't positive I had the strength to.

Quick footsteps. "Arthur! R-répondez-moi!"

Bloody frog knew I didn't speak French.

The banging of his feet came to an abrupt halt.

". . . Arth . . ." So he was in the kitchen now.

Slowly, he started to walk again. It was so quiet. Eerie almost.

A warm hand traveled under my chin. That's odd, I always thought Francis had cold hands.

Still with my eyes closed, my head was pushed upwards. I smelt Francis's breathe as he spoke. It held the faint scent of wine and cheese. If in any condition to, I would have laughed at him for being such a stereotypical Frenchman.

"A-Arthur . . . oh Arthur, what have you done? Why must you do this?" I felt his hand start to tremble. "Do you know what this does to me?" I don't care. "Do you know how much this hurts me?" You think I give a fuck? "You can't do this Arthur . . ." He started crying. ". . . I-I'm sorry for not being here . . . I-I'm so sorry Arthur." Did he think I was dead?

I cracked my eyes open. Things were still moving rapidly and I had to slam them shut again.

Hair was softly pushed from my face by his unexpectedly warm appendage. "H-Hold on. I'm going to call the hôpital. You'll be okay."

'_Hôpital? Hospital. Hospital? No! I can't go to a bloody hospital! I just can't! I don't want to! They'd try to get me help. I don't want help. I don't need bloody help!'_

I started whimpering. Despite the twirling world, I forced my eyes open and stared right at Francis. His gaze connected with mine as he waited for me to say or do something. Most of my body felt like it was made of stone . . . or maybe warm butter. Either way, it was difficult to move.

I guess lady fate finally decided to give me a break, because by some incredible feat, I was able to muster up the strength to shake my head and say, "No. Don't send me there." However hoarse and weak it came out sounding, it got the point across.

Francis sighed shakily and rubbed at his eyes. "Arthur, you have to go. I am not giving you a choice. You're hurt and you need help." bloody frog. I didn't need help. Just some bandages. "You are going to the hospital and that is that."

Tears stung my eyes again. I stared at him brokenly; begging silently. He couldn't take me there. If he did I'd never forgive him. Never!

Francis – still holding my chin in his hand – studied my expression with surprised and torn eyes. He wanted so badly to take me to a hospital, but would hate more than anything to deny me such a simple request – especially when I was close to tears and pleading for it.

After a while of contemplation on his part, he finally, hesitantly nodded. "I don't like it . . . it goes against every instinct I have . . . but . . . i-if you . . ." He sighed loudly as he ran a hand through his long, (too long. I almost thought he was a girl when I first saw him) blonde hair. That was the end of his reasoning with himself. I'd won.

I exhaled in relief and leaned back again to rest.

". . . I'll get some things to clean you up with." Francis said as he stood up. I just responded with a little hum.

It occurred to me then. If he hadn't shown up, I would have probably died – bled out. He saved my life . . . and for what? He wasn't getting any reward for doing all this. I wasn't paying him. No one was putting a gun to his head and telling him to take care of me or else. He got nothing from this . . .

. . . right?

Was it just . . . was making sure I was safe reward enough? . . . Wow that was cheesy. But could it hold some truth?

Did Francis really . . . I never took his confessions seriously, but now . . . I don't know.

Well . . . even if he did, it wouldn't change anything. We would still have the same relationship; get into the same fights over the same things. Because my feelings won't change.

He saved my life.

And I never hated him more.

_A/N: did you like~? It's not that bad, right? Not that great, but not that bad. I already started chapter 4. This might be my first multi-chapter story I finish. I'm really getting into it._

_Still nothing to say._

_Please review. _


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